Life Goes On
by Fuzzy Ears Fan
Summary: John Watson always considered himself a strong man, but after watching Sherlock fall he wasn't so sure anymore. How could he possibly go on, and what will he do when the one person he thought he'd never see again turns back up? SLASH ONESHOT


A/N: Wow, I haven't written anything in _ages_! It feels good to get the creative juices flowing again. I started watching this show months ago and immediately fell in love. It's just too brilliant to ignore. Anyway, this idea had been running around in my head for weeks, so I finally decided that I had to get it out. Hope you like it, and feel free to review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing and all rights go to their respective parties.

/

This couldn't be happening. John refused to believe it. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would not commit suicide. This was a trick. It had to be.

"Sherlock!" he whispered harshly as he ran toward the small crowd that had quickly formed around the body. John would _not_ call it Sherlock; it wasn't him.

As he was rounding the corner, a cyclist came out of nowhere and knocked him to the ground. John's head hit the pavement with a crack and immediately everything went fuzzy. He knew he probably had just gotten a concussion, he was a doctor after all, but he didn't care. He only cared about getting to the body. He pushed himself up and through the crowd until he could see the face of the man lying in a pool of blood. Shocking blue eyes stared back at him from a canvas of contrasting white and vibrant red. John reached for the man's wrist and pressed his fingers to the pulse point. Nothing. No reassuring thump beneath his fingers. John released the appendage as if it had burned him.

Medics rushed out of the hospital with a gurney and hauled the body onto it. The white pillow was immediately stained that same awful, vibrant red color that painted the sidewalk. John stood and stared as the medics rushed their cargo inside. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Then, he burst into action. He ripped open the doors of the hospital and sprinted down the hallway. John's vision was still blurred and his balance wasn't the best, so he knocked into walls and benches along his way, but he didn't care. He was on a frantic mission. As he rounded the last corner he could see the sign for the mortuary. He was about to burst in when someone walked out and grabbed him.

"John! John, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." the woman choked out. John looked down and saw that it was Molly who was holding him back. Tears were pouring down her cheeks.

"Molly, let me go. I have to see the body. I have to!"

He tried to get around her, but her hold was surprisingly strong.

"No, John. You can't. He…he wouldn't want you to see."

"It's not him, Molly! It's not Sherlock! It can't be."

Molly let him go with a shake of her head. She braced herself against the wall, but it was no use. She collapsed to the floor and doubled over sobbing. John stared at her. This wasn't right. Molly was a professional. She saw death every day. She wouldn't react this way to a random body made to look like Sherlock.

"It's not him." John pressed. Molly looked up at him with the saddest look John had ever seen.

"It is, John. I ex…examined him myself. I know Sherlock Holmes. I've known him for a long time. It's him. He's…he's gone. Sherlock is dead." she sobbed.

John felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. No. This wasn't right. He put his arms out and circled as if he was waiting for someone to come out and tell him that the jig was up; they couldn't fool him. No one came.

"John?" Molly called, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear anything except the ringing in his ears. Molly stood up slowly and reached out to him, but he ignored her.

"John, I think you should sit down." Molly whispered, but John only looked at her. Then, it hit him all at once. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock had jumped to his death right in front of him. Sherlock had called him. Sherlock had said goodbye. Sherlock was dead.

"No." John whispered, and then he collapsed. Molly caught him before he hit the floor, but it didn't matter; John was already broken. He cried and clung to Molly, and she held him close to her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John. I'm sorry." she whispered in his ear over and over, but it did nothing to console him. He just continued to cry.

Finally, he managed to choke out, "Why?"

Molly shook her head.

"I don't know, but he never did anything without a good reason."

"Reason's got nothing to do with this! By doing this he's let Moriarty win! Everyone will think that he really was a fake now! He'll be remembered as a fraud! He's letting Moriarty get _exactly_ what he wanted!" John screamed.

At that moment the door at the end of the hall clicked closed. Molly and John turned to see Lestrade shaking his head.

"So it's true? Sherlock's dead?" he asked.

"Yes." Molly said as she clutched John tighter.

"I don't believe it." Lestrade said as he wiped his hands over his face.

"There's more."

John and Lestrade looked at Molly as if to ask the same silent question.

"A body was found on the roof. It was brought in just before Sherlock. Cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head."

"Someone was up there with Sherlock before he jumped?" John asked.

Molly nodded.

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

"Jim Moriarty."

John pushed away from her. How was that possible? Why would Moriarty have come here to meet with Sherlock? Why would they both kill themselves?

"The guy Sherlock made up?"

"He didn't make him up!" John screamed.

"Sherlock did _not_ invent James Moriarty, Lestrade. That man, that _monster_, has been after Sherlock for years. He wanted to destroy Sherlock. He wanted to take away _everything_ from him. I can't believe you would believe that Sherlock was a fraud, Lestrade, after everything he's done for you!"

Lestrade put his hands up in a placating manner.

"I never said that I thought Sherlock was a fraud. But, it's going to be hard to prove that to the world now that Sherlock's committed suicide after seemingly being proven a fake."

"So you believe in him?" Molly asked.

Lestrade nodded.

"I've always believed in him."

/

The morning of the funeral was sunny, but there was no warmth. John stood beside Mrs. Hudson and firmly gripped her hand as she cried. Molly stood on his other side, Lestrade next to her. Mycroft stood apart from the group. He left as soon as the casket was lowered into the ground without saying a word. The other four stayed for a while, each silently grieving, until one by one they left too.

/

Immediately after The Incident, John refused to refer to it as Sherlock's suicide, he didn't return to Baker Street. He visited the grave every day, but he refused to go home. Instead, he stayed with Molly. He couldn't face the silence that would greet him at the flat. Molly, bless her, didn't try and get him to talk and she ignored the sounds of sobbing that came from her living room every night. After a few weeks though John knew that he couldn't avoid it any longer.

Baker Street was quiet when he arrived. The first few days after The Incident reporters crowded the door at all hours; at least, that's what Mrs. Hudson told him when she called. After a while though new stories broke and the interest was lost. John was glad for it. He didn't want to be in the papers anymore. Slowly, he pushed the key into the lock of 221B and opened the door. The familiar smell washed over him and he almost walked back out, but he was a soldier and he pushed himself forward.

Mrs. Hudson was out, so he knew he could take all the time he needed. He made his way up the stairs and into the flat. Everything looked exactly as it had the last time he was there. Sherlock's things were still strewn about all over. There was lab equipment set up in the kitchen. A layer of dust coated all the surfaces. It was completely undisturbed, and that made John inexplicably angry. A rage so sudden and fierce bubbled up inside him that before he knew what he was doing he had started to throw things.

"Why, Sherlock? Why?" he screamed as he threw everything he could get his hands on. He knew that he was being irrational. He knew that he was breaking things. He didn't care.

"Tell me why, dammit!"

That broke the floodgates. John dropped to his knees in the middle of the room and cried. He didn't know how long he sobbed, but eventually he calmed down enough to realize what a mess he'd made. Mrs. Hudson would be furious when she got home. Slowly, he wiped the tears from his face and began to straighten up. He was still cleaning when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"Dear, are you all right?" she asked quietly.

John's eyes shot to her. He hadn't heard her come up the stairs.

"I…I don't know. I hope I will be." he answered honestly.

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"We all hope that, dear."

She began helping him clean up and John didn't stop her.

/

John started seeing his therapist again. After a month of not being able to deal with his life he'd made an appointment with her. She was not surprised to see him. He was able to open up to her more than he was before. She took that as a good sign. She told him about the grieving process and that it was okay for him to feel the way he did, but in reality she had no idea how he felt. He didn't even know what he felt anymore. Numb might be the best way to describe it. It didn't matter in the end. Numb or not, life must go on.

/

John took a job at Barts. He knew that Molly had put in a word for him, and he was grateful. He needed distraction. The patients he saw needed him, and it was nice to feel needed again. Every once in a while someone would recognize him and ask about Sherlock, but he would brush it off. He didn't like talking about his deceased best friend.

/

Lestrade kept in touch. He'd taken a beating at work for his involvement with Sherlock. He was demoted, but at least he got to keep his job. He and John would go for drinks on Friday night sometimes. It was just another distraction, perhaps for the both of them. They would make small talk, even crack jokes, but they both knew that their hearts weren't really in it. Still, they'd formed a bond over the last few years and now they both realized how much they didn't want to give it up. They'd lost enough.

/

A year passed. On the morning of the anniversary of Sherlock's death John awoke abruptly. He knew what day it was, and he knew that the calls would start soon. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, they would all call to check on him. Hell, even Harry might call. He knew that they all worried about him. He never had bounced back. He went through the motions of living, but that was all. He was just a spectator now; there was no point in participating.

John slowly made his way to the kitchen to make himself a cuppa. As he did so he looked around the flat. It had certainly changed in a year. John had removed all of Sherlock's scientific equipment and returned them to the hospital. He'd purchased all new appliances for the kitchen since he and Mrs. Hudson were in agreement that no amount of cleaning would really ever sanitize them after what Sherlock had contaminated them with over the years. Even so, she'd insisted on scrubbing the place top to bottom before she'd let John cook anything. But it wasn't just the kitchen that had changed. The common room had changed as well. Sherlock's clutter had been collected, organized, and put into boxes that were then placed in his room for storage. The books and furniture and kick-knacks he had left behind John kept out. He could never bring himself to completely remove Sherlock from the flat. He had, however, let Mrs. Hudson fix the wall. The new wallpaper covered the patches and the old yellow smiley face. It looked more like a conventional, homey flat now, but there was an emptiness that had never been filled. John doubted it ever would be.

"John, dear? Are you awake?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.

John shook himself out of his reverie and answered, "Yes. I'm just making a cuppa. Would you like one?"

"No, thank you. Are you going out today?" she asked from the doorway.

John gave her a curious look.

"I was planning to visit Sherlock's grave later. Why?"

Mrs. Hudson motioned to the window. When John looked outside he found himself staring at a black car. A man was getting out of it, and John knew immediately whom the man was. A second later the bell rang and Mrs. Hudson went to open the door. The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted John that he was coming up.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Dr. Watson. How are you?"

John turned around and glared at the elder Holmes brother.

"You know how I am. Don't think it's escaped my notice that your surveillance hasn't lessened in the past year."

Mycroft looked away and almost grinned.

"I had hoped my people would be more discreet."

"They were, but I guess Sherlock's eye for detail rubbed off on me more than I thought." John replied.

The two men were silent for a moment before Mycroft asked, "Are you going to the cemetery?"

"Yes."

"May I join you?"

John scoffed. He'd gone to Sherlock's grave every day the first few months after The Incident. Never had he seen Mycroft there. Even after he'd only started going once a week he'd never run into him.

"Why?"

Mycroft actually looked offended.

"He was my brother."

John shook his head.

"That doesn't mean you cared about him."

Mycroft looked away.

"Caring has never come easily to the members of my family."

John nodded.

"For once, I think I agree with you. Sherlock never cared either."

"You of all people should know the invalidity of that statement." Mycroft said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean."

Mycroft looked at him pointedly.

"Admittedly, there were very few people that my brother cared for, but you were by far the one that he held most dear."

John shook his head and almost laughed.

"Unbelievable. Even though he's dead, people still think we're a couple. I'm not going to listen to this." he said as he moved past Mycroft. He was almost to the stairs when he turned to look back at Mycroft.

"Why did you come here today?"

"I was worried about you. It's been a year, but you still aren't yourself." Mycroft answered honestly.

Now John was angry. What right did Mycroft have to judge him?

"You weren't the one who spoke to him last! You didn't have to watch him jump! You weren't the one who saw the concrete painted with his blood! So, forgive me if I'm not quite as chipper as I used to be!" he yelled.

Mycroft raised a placating hand.

"I apologize. I did not mean to upset you."

"Well, congratulations. You did. Now, if you'll please show yourself out, I have to get dressed."

John left Mycroft in the common room as he stormed up to his room.

/

The second year after The Incident proved easier for John. He found himself participating a little more in life. He even went out on a few dates. His dalliances never turned into anything serious until he met Mary Morstan. She was beautiful, and she made him feel things that he never thought he'd feel again. Mary made John happy, and Mrs. Hudson thoroughly approved.

"Will Mary be joining us for dinner tonight?" she asked as she set the table.

John nodded and answered, "Yes. She should be here shortly."

A few minutes later the bell rang and John went to open it. Mary was there and greeted him with a soft kiss.

"Hello, darling. Something smells wonderful."

John smiled.

"You can thank Mrs. Hudson for that."

"I'm sure."

Mrs. Hudson hugged Mary when she entered the flat and Mary immediately began helping her set up. Soon they were seated around the table and enjoying dinner. John was still shocked how well Mary fit into his life; at least, the life he lived now. He still thought about his life with Sherlock more often than he probably should, but his life now wasn't terrible. He enjoyed his job and he enjoyed spending time with Mary, but he would admit that he missed the excitement of his old life.

"Are you listening, John?" Mary asked.

John flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"I asked if you would like me to buy some flowers to bring tomorrow."

"Flowers?"

Mary looked at Mrs. Hudson and both women shook their heads.

"Yes. For the grave. Would you like me to buy some?"

Oh. John had almost forgotten. Tomorrow was the second anniversary of Sherlock's death.

"Well, I think that would be nice. Yes. We'll get some."

Mary smiled and went back to her dinner. Mrs. Hudson met John's eye and the same silent grief passed between them. The wound had still not healed.

/

It was only a few weeks later that John found himself in a jewelry store looking at rings. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd ended up there, but as soon as he stepped in he realized what he was going to do. He made his purchase and then headed back to Baker Street.

"Hello, dear." Mrs. Hudson greeted him when he'd walked through the door.

"Hello. I have something to show you." he smiled as he pulled out the little box. Mrs. Hudson gasped when he opened the lid, and then a few happy tears trailed down her cheeks. She kissed John softly on the cheek and whispered, "Mary will love it. I'm so happy for you."

John blushed.

"Thank you. That means a lot. Sherlock would have never understood."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth John wished he could reel them back in. Mrs. Hudson's face fell and then she sighed.

"No. Perhaps not. But he _would_ be pleased that you're happy."

John looked away.

"You are happy, aren't you? You seem to be."

John took a deep breath before he replied, "I'm as happy as I think I can be now. It's not the same feeling that it was before, but I'll take it."

Mrs. Hudson nodded her agreement. If anyone could understand how John was feeling, it would be her.

/

John proposed that night in a traditional fashion. He and Mary went to dinner and on the way back to her flat he got down on one knee and asked her to be his wife. She cried and accepted. The week after she and John both agreed that they would move into a new flat together. On the day that John moved out of 221B Mrs. Hudson cried.

"I'm going to miss you terribly!" she exclaimed as she hugged him tight.

"I'll miss you too, but don't worry. I'll come for tea and we'll have you over to ours as well. This is far from goodbye." John reassured her.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and pressed a kiss to Mary's cheek.

"Take good care of him. He needs it." she whispered in his ear.

Mary nodded and gave her a small smile. Then she grabbed the last of John's things and went out to hail a cab. John went up to the flat for one last walk-through. Technically, it would always be his because Mycroft had bought it and put it in John and Sherlock's name. However, John knew it was time to move on. He couldn't start a new life with Mary in the place that would always tie him to his old one.

The flat had been emptied and now all of Sherlock's things were locked inside his old bedroom. The common room and kitchen were bare, and John's heart ached in his chest as he took in the blank spaces.

"Goodbye." he whispered as he turned to leave for the final time. He made it to the street just as a cab pulled up. With a final wave to Mrs. Hudson, John Watson left Baker Street.

/

A month later John walked into the kitchen to see that Mary had placed the mail on the kitchen table. He quickly glanced over the letters and notices, but when he got to the paper he nearly fainted. On the front page, in large bold letters, were the words:

"_Sherlock Holmes Exonerated."_

John collapsed into the chair and began to read the accompanying article.

"_Nearly three years ago the world's only consulting detective was called a fraud in a history making report. Sherlock Holmes, the detective in question, had allegedly created the criminal mastermind James Moriarty. Holmes supposedly went on to plan and perpetrate a series of baffling crimes that were all attributed to Moriarty. The crime spree might have gone on forever, but Richard Brook came forward. Brook was an actor that had supposedly been hired by Holmes to play Moriarty. The young man went along with it for a quite a while, but eventually he told reporter Kitty Reilly that his conscience could not let him continue the façade. In her report, Reilly revealed Holmes to be a fake by telling Brook's story. Shamed and exposed, Holmes tragically took his own life the same day that Brook also committed suicide. However, that is not the end of the story. Late last night evidence appeared that proved beyond all doubt that Brook was the true fraud. Several arrests have been made in the last few weeks that all share one thing in common; all the criminals had worked for Moriarty. At least five people had committed crimes for Moriarty that pre-dated any of the cases that Holmes was part of. The final bit of proof came from the statement of one of Moriarty's most trusted colleagues. The man states that he was part of Moriarty's plan to destroy Holmes' life and reputation. He gave detectives intimate details of Moriarty's plan and what his specific part in it was. This indisputable truth has cleared Holmes' name. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, who worked closely with Holmes and who was demoted because of his involvement with the detective, was officially reinstated to his position this morning and New Scotland Yard is expected to release a statement apologizing to the friends and family of Holmes."_

John couldn't believe it. Finally, after all this time, Sherlock's name was cleared. John had never given up hope that this would happen, but even he would admit that it was starting to seem like a lost cause. He hastily pulled out his mobile.

"Mrs. Hudson! Have you seen the paper?" he asked as soon as the line connected.

"_Yes! Can you believe it? I'm so happy!"_

"Me too! I never gave up on him. I never stopped believing in him."

"_I know, dear. I think he would have been very touched."_

"No. He would have admonished my sentiment." John laughed.

"_That would be just like him."_

"Yes. Yes it would."

/

Two days later John attended the press conference where NSY officially apologized for their part in defaming Sherlock. John caught Lestrade's eye, and they shared a smile. Neither Donovan nor Anderson could meet John's gaze.

/

It was nearly three in the morning when John was pulled out of his sleep by his mobile ringing.

"Who's calling at this hour?" Mary grumbled.

"It's a private number." John replied before he accepted the call.

"Hello? Who is this?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Is this a prank call?" John asked as his irritation began to grow.

Still silence. John was a second away from hanging up when he heard a voice say his name. At the sound of it his heart skipped a beat.

"Who is this?" he asked again desperately. He had to have been hearing things, or else he was dreaming. There was no way he had heard _that voice_.

"Hello?" he asked panicked.

He never got a response. The line went dead. John didn't sleep for the rest of the night.

/

For days John couldn't get the notion out of his head that he had heard _that voice._ It was absolutely impossible, but then again, John had seen the man do impossible things a hundred times over. That was when the anger came. It would be just like him to do this, to fake everything. It would be so amusing for him, the ultimate boredom relief. That really pushed John over the edge. He began seeing glimpses of _him_ everywhere. He would wander right at the edge of John's vision. The doctor really thought he was beginning to lose his mind.

That idea reached culmination one night when he and Mary were at a party for her work. John was not being very social, even with Mary's prodding, and so she'd left him alone to sulk. He'd been in a mood for nearly two weeks and she wasn't going to deal with it right now in front of her entire workplace. That was a bad decision. Suddenly, a loud cry and the shattering of a tray of wine glasses filled the room and everyone turned to see what the commotion was.

"What the hell was that for?" the waiter cried as he pressed his hand to his rapidly swelling eye.

John was seething, but as he got a better look at the young man, his rage began to dissipate.

"Sorry. I thought you were someone else." he muttered.

"Jesus! You might want to check that before you go around swinging punches at people!"

Mary rushed forward and took John's arm.

"We're leaving!" she whispered harshly. John only nodded and allowed himself to be led away. The cab ride home was bitterly silent, but John was beyond caring. When he and Mary were safely in their flat, she let him have it.

"What did you think you were doing? You do realize that you have utterly embarrassed me in front of my entire workplace, don't you? All of my superiors were there! What possessed you to punch a poor waiter?"

"I thought he was someone else."

Mary laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh, well, that's fine then. You thought he was someone else. John! Regardless of who you thought he was, did you really have to cause such a scene? Wouldn't have been better to talk to him? Was it really necessary for you to give him a black eye?" she screamed.

"You don't understand." John whispered as he made to leave. Mary grabbed his arm and he stiffened at her touch.

"Then help me understand. What the bloody hell is going on with you lately? You've not been yourself for weeks."

John shook his head.

"It's nothing."

Mary sighed in exasperation.

"Don't lie to me. I know you, John Watson."

Now John was angry again.

"No you _don't_! Not really. You know me as I am now, but you have no idea who I used to be!"

Mary stepped back. For the first time, she was a little frightened of her fiancé. Still, she steeled herself before saying, "You're John Hamish Watson. You have a sister named Harriet. You finished your medical degree and did a residency at Barts. You were a soldier. You served as an army doctor in Afghanistan. You saw the horrors of war. You were invalided home after being shot in you left shoulder. After that, you worked in a clinic and then took a position back at Barts. I _do_ know who you used to be."

John shook his head vehemently.

"All that, everything you just said, that's what I've done. That's not who I_ am._"

"Then who are you?" Mary asked quietly.

John sighed.

"I'm not sure anymore. I used to know, but now I can't recall. Besides, you neglected to mention one very important thing that I did."

Mary gave him a confused look. She thought over her words, and then realization dawned on her.

"You worked with Sherlock Holmes."

When she said his name, she saw a light grow in John's eyes that she had never seen before. He seemed to soften as he replied, "Yes. I worked with him, lived with him, took care of him, and then I watched him die. He saved me, but I could do nothing to save him. Now it's like his ghost is tormenting me. I thought he called me the other night. I thought I heard his voice, and now I think I see him everywhere. I guess I'm just losing my mind."

Mary hesitantly reached for John again, but he moved away from her. All the softness was gone from his posture and gaze.

"Don't, Mary."

With that he opened the door and stormed out of the flat. Mary was left staring after him and wondering how she had never seen just how wounded John still was.

A man in a black car took notice of the good doctor barreling onto the street and picked up his mobile.

"You're beginning to cause a bigger mess than even I would have anticipated. I suggest you do something to clean it up. Quickly." he muttered before hanging up without waiting for a reply.

/

John didn't return home that night. He wandered the streets and rode the tube mindlessly. When he finally walked in the next afternoon, Mary was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked a fright and it was obvious that she had spent most of the night crying. John just walked past her.

/

After a week of nearly endless silence in the flat, John got another call from a private number. He hastily answered it.

"Hello."

"_John."_

There it was. There was _that voice_.

"Who is this?" he asked breathlessly.

"_Meet me at the flat in twenty minutes."_

The line went dead and John stared at his phone for a full minute before he burst into action. He didn't even bother to hail a cab; he just began sprinting toward Baker Street. The thought that this was the moment he had well and truly lost his mind occurred to him, but he pushed it aside. If there was a chance, even a small one, that he wasn't crazy, then he had to go for it.

By the time he reached 221B he was completely out of breath and drenched in sweat. Slowly, reverently, he turned the knob. The door opened silently and John stepped inside. Immediately he could see that Mrs. Hudson was out. Her door was firmly shut. There was only one other person in the world that had a key to the front door besides himself. With a racing heart, he slowly made his way up the stairs to the landing. The door was open and John could see a figure standing in the common room. Their back was to the door and for a moment John honestly thought about turning around and running back home. However, the curiosity and hope that had bloomed in his heart since hearing _that voice_ would not let him do anything but walk toward the lone figure. As he did, John took in the pressed shirt, the tailored trousers, the expensive shoes. He saw the pale skin of the person's neck and the dark, curly hair on their head. Before he had fully prepared himself, the figure turned toward him and John had to grip the doorframe to keep from falling over. Staring back at him across the empty flat were eyes that John never thought he would see again.

"John."

He was going to be sick.

"You ran here. I thought surely you would take a cab. Then again, you always had a knack for surprising me."

John shook his head. How was this possible?

"You're dead." he whispered.

"No, doctor, I am not. Although, I do understand why you would be under that impression."

John gave a hollow laugh. The rage began to boil in him and he lashed out. Before Sherlock could even think to dodge, John had punched him squarely in the face.

"You understand? You understand _nothing_!" John screamed.

Sherlock wiped the blood from his lip and said, "Hold on a moment, John. Let me explain."

John shook his head and hit Sherlock again.

"No! I don't want to hear it! There is _nothing_ you could say that will make up for what you did! Whatever game Moriarty had you playing, we could have figured it out together!"

"No we couldn't have! If I didn't jump he was going to kill everyone! He had snipers that would have taken out Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you. I did it to save you, John! There was no other way!" Sherlock pressed.

John clenched his fists.

"No, you just didn't want to see another way. You always have to be the clever one, don't you? What could be cleverer than convincing the world that you had died, only to come back once the case was solved? It makes sense now. The arrests that were made in connection to Moriarty, the ones that cleared your name, it was you. You went out and dismantled his crime ring one by one. And now that they're all behind bars and you're the hero again you think you can come back and everything will go back to how it was. Is that it? Did I make the proper _deductions_?" he seethed.

Sherlock stepped back.

"John, I don't understand. I thought you'd be happy."

"I already told you, Sherlock. You don't understand anything."

John turned to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"I did it all for you. I couldn't…I couldn't let you die. Not you."

John looked back and met Sherlock's gaze.

"Then I'm sorry to inform you that you failed. I died the moment you jumped. I'm not the man you knew. I'm not the man _I_ knew. I'm altogether different now, Sherlock, and you can't save me this time."

With that he pulled out of Sherlock's grasp and walked away. Sherlock didn't have the strength to go after him.

/

It was in the papers and on the news when Sherlock revealed himself to the general public. Everyone in the world wanted to know how he'd faked his suicide, but John refused to listen. Every time Mary would bring in a paper he would throw it out, and he walked out of the room when she had on the news. He still hadn't really spoken to her since their fight, and she was really beginning to get worried. One night, she'd finally had enough.

"Okay, John. Enough is enough."

John looked up at her from his dinner plate.

"You can't keep acting this way." Mary pressed.

"In which way?" John asked slowly.

"Like you don't care about anyone or anything at all. You've barely spoken to me or anyone for almost a month. You go through the motions of living your life, but you're not taking part in it. Sherlock's back from the dead, and it's like you wish he were still a body in the ground. I thought he was your best friend. Shouldn't you at least be happy that he's alive?"

John pushed his plate away.

"I don't know, Mary. Should I be happy that he lied to me? Should I be happy that he didn't trust me enough to tell me what he was planning before he went ahead and did it? Should I be happy that I spent nearly three years dealing with nightmares and grief and thoughts of ending my own life when in reality there was no reason for me to have gone through any of that? You tell me, Mary. Tell me whether I should be happy or not."

Mary could feel tears running down her cheeks, but she resolutely ignored them.

"I think you need to see him, John."

John scoffed.

"Why? I don't care to hear anything he may have to say."

Mary shook her head.

"I don't believe that. I think you care very much. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that you never stopped caring."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked.

Mary replied, "You told me once that I didn't know _who_ you were, only what you'd _done_. You said that I only knew who you are _now_, but that this person was not the real you. Something tells me that who you _truly _are has everything to do with Sherlock. I think if you spoke with him that you would come back to yourself."

John stood up from the table and shook his head.

"Maybe I don't want to be that person anymore." he whispered.

Mary watched him walk out of the flat.

"But you do, John. You desperately want to be that person." she whispered into the silence.

/

Mary stood outside of 221B Baker Street and sighed. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to meet the man who had hurt her beloved, but for John she would do anything. She knocked loudly and waited. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and her expression turned from one of tired annoyance to joy in a matter of seconds.

"Mary! It's so good to see you, dear." she exclaimed as she hugged the younger woman. Mary hugged her back gratefully.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm so glad to see you. I need a favor." she said when she had been released from the embrace.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously.

"I was hoping that you could tell me where Sherlock is. I need to talk to him."

Mrs. Hudson's face fell and then she pointed up the stairs.

"He's in the flat. He's not in a good mood though. He hasn't been taking visitors at all since he came back. I still can't believe he's here at all. I never thought I'd ever see his infuriating face again, that daft boy!"

Mary nodded.

"Neither did John. That's kind of the reason I'm here. John is…lost now. I don't know how to help him, and I think Sherlock is the only one who can."

Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"Yes. I figured as much. Those two boys always did mirror each other's emotions. If one was upset, so was the other. With Sherlock acting the way he has, I can only imagine how John must be doing."

"They were very close, weren't they?"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened.

"Don't you know? Didn't John ever say?" she asked.

"Not really. By the time I met him, he didn't want to talk about Sherlock. I knew that they had worked together for a few years, all of England did, but all I ever got out of John was that they were best friends and John was there the day Sherlock died. Or at least, the day he made everyone believe he died."

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands as she replied, "They were inseparable. I've never met two people who were closer. Right after it happened, I honestly worried that John would follow after Sherlock."

Mary's heart ached. John had only just admitted to her that he _had_ thought of ending his life after losing Sherlock. She was starting to think there was more to their relationship than just a deep friendship.

"Well, he didn't. Thank goodness." Mary whispered.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and then ushered Mary inside.

"Go on up. If he asks you to leave, just tell him that I told you that you could stay as long as you'd like. He won't argue with my wishes."

Mary nodded and then gave the older woman another quick hug before she began to climb the stairs. With every step she took she got more and more nervous. She had never met Sherlock Holmes. She'd seen him in the papers and on the news, but never encountered him in person. Before she had mentally prepared herself, she was at the landing and peeking through the open door into the flat. Inside it looked as if a tornado had come through. Boxes where haphazardly opened and object were carelessly strewn about the place. The only thing that looked to have been placed carefully was an elegant violin that was propped on a stand by the window. Mary hesitantly stepped into the flat and looked around the corner into the kitchen. Scientific equipment was stacked on the table, but it wasn't in any type of order. She was just turning into the common room again when she bumped into a solid, warm mass.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" a low baritone voice asked her. Mary looked up to find piercing blue eyes staring down at her from under a mop of dark curls.

"My name is Mary Morstan. You must be Sherlock Holmes."

He stepped away from her and pointed toward the door.

"I'm in no mood to see anyone, so kindly exit the way you entered."

Mary glanced at the door and then back at him.

"Mrs. Hudson said I could stay as long as I wished."

He lowered his arm and glared at her.

"Then I'll ask you again, who are you?"

"My name is Mary…"

"I didn't ask for your _name_, I asked who you_ are_!" he exclaimed.

"I'm John Watson's fiancé. Now, are you Sherlock Holmes or not?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded.

"Good. Well then, Mr. Holmes, I need you to talk to John."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't think he has any desire to talk to me. I've only just healed from the last encounter I had with him."

Mary shook her head.

"He was upset, and understandably so. What kind of reaction did you think he'd have when he discovered that everything had been a stunt?"

"I knew he'd be angry, but I didn't honestly think he'd attack me. Granted, given past experiences we've had that drove him to violence I should have at least been prepared for the possibility." Sherlock muttered.

Mary stepped toward him and Sherlock stiffened.

"I don't know what to do. He's either fighting mad, or silent as the grave. I've tried to get him to open up, but he won't. I can't help him. I thought that you might be able to. You might be the only one who can."

Sherlock looked away from her and after a moment strode over to the window. He didn't turn around when he said, "He left me. When I came back, he was gone."

Mary was confused. Surely this man didn't believe that John would wait on him, would put his life on hold for a dead friend.

"Did you expect him to stay?" she asked.

"Yes! That is _exactly_ what I expected!" Sherlock yelled as he turned to face her.

"I didn't think he'd _leave_. I didn't think he'd replace me with…with _you._"

Now Mary was offended. Who did this man think he was? He didn't know a single thing about her, and he was insulting her and insinuating that she wasn't as good for John as he was?

"Excuse me? If you're implying that I'm not good enough for John, then I have to point out that _he _chose _me._ He had a choice to sit in this flat and waste away without you, but he didn't. He chose to move on. He chose to fall in love with me. He chose to ask me to marry him."

Sherlock dismissed her.

"If I hadn't needed to leave, then his relationship with you would never have lasted."

Mary slapped him.

"How dare you say that? John _loves_ me."

Sherlock was stunned that he had been struck in the face again, and for a moment he could understand why this woman and John had made their relationship work for as long as they had, but then he laughed darkly.

"Oh _sentiment_. I see. He _loves_ you. Just like he _loved_ all the others before you."

Mary had had enough. She was about to turn and walk out when she came to a sudden realization. She almost laughed when it occurred to her, but she controlled herself and just said, "I see what this is about. You're jealous. You're sulking like a heartbroken teenager because John has moved on. That's why you haven't tried to contact him again."

Sherlock sneered.

"I do not have the same need for emotional attachment as others do."

Mary shook her head.

"Save it. I don't believe you. You care about John, that much is obvious. So, with that in mind, I'm going to ask you again to talk to him. I want my fiancé back, and whether or not I like it, I still think you're the only one who can bring him back to me."

Sherlock looked past her into the kitchen.

"I'm not sure that I agree with your deduction." he whispered.

"Wouldn't you rather find out than sit here and wonder?" Molly asked.

Sherlock glanced at her and then sighed.

"I'll try." he finally conceded.

Mary smiled at him and then turned to go.

"Why do you think I'm the only one who can bring him back?" Sherlock asked her just before she started down the stairs. Mary's heart clenched and her breath caught in her thought as she thought about the answer to that question. She had yet to voice it out loud because just the thought of it hurt her deeply, but perhaps Sherlock needed to know.

"Because he loves you. Maybe even more than he loves me." she whispered. She continued down the stairs and Sherlock let her go.

/

Sherlock made a quick call to Mycroft in order to locate John. Within a few moments he was in a cab an on his way to meet his old friend. Sometimes having a brother involved with the British government was an asset. Sherlock couldn't say he was surprised to discover where John was. He knew the doctor as well as he knew himself, and so his current location was not one that was outside the realm of reasonable.

When the cab let him off, Sherlock quietly made his way down the worn path. He could see John not far away. When he noticed the stiffening of the doctor's posture and the clenching of his fists, Sherlock knew that John had been alerted to his presence.

"I'm not down there, John." Sherlock said quietly.

"You might as well be." he replied after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock asked, "Would you prefer that?"

John turned around and looked at Sherlock exasperatedly.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"You didn't answer my question."

John ran a hand over his face and said, "Because I don't honestly know the answer. I spent so long thinking you_ were_ down there, that you were gone."

"I'm sorry, John. I…"

John held up his hand to stop Sherlock from speaking.

"Don't, Sherlock. Just don't. Please. I don't want to hear excuses or explanations. Just tell me one thing. Just tell me that you're not going to leave me again."

It did not go unnoticed by Sherlock that John's voice was shaking or that he was trembling. He could clearly see how John's eyes were watering but that he was fighting with everything he had to keep the tears in. What completely escaped him were the tears rolling down his own cheeks. They were entirely unimportant as he stood in front of this man whom he held dearer than all others.

"I have no intention of leaving you ever again."

Without knowing how it happened or who moved first, suddenly John was in his arms and he was holding the doctor as if his life depended on it. In a way, it very much did. Sherlock's life had never meant very much to him until John, and without him it meant almost nothing.

"Jesus, I missed you." John muttered into Sherlock's neck.

"I missed you too."

/

Once John and Sherlock found each other again, they were hardly ever seen apart. John still lived with Mary, and they were still planning their wedding, but it wasn't unusual for Mary to go to bed alone and wake up to discover that John had been out all night. She had never realized how true John's words were when he told her that she only knew the person he had become, not the person he truly was. When she saw John with Sherlock, she could see who he truly was. He thoroughly enjoyed following the detective around and chasing after criminals. He lived for it; he _loved_ it. It made Mary wonder where her place in his life was. She remembered Sherlock's words to her that if John had him then he would not have a need for her. However, she was determined to find her place in John's life and to continue loving him.

"You remember that we're meeting with the officiant tomorrow, right?" she asked John on a rare night when he was home for dinner.

"Yes. At three' o'clock. I'll be there."

Mary nodded.

"Good. We're finalizing the ceremony tomorrow and going over the vows. It's very important."

John reached across the table and took her hand.

"I know. I promise that I'll be there."

Mary was disgusted with herself for not being able to fully believe him.

/

It was one' o' clock the next afternoon when Sherlock discovered who the newest criminal was. He rushed out of the mortuary of St. Barts and John scrambled after him. He just managed to get in the cab with Sherlock before they were off on the chase.

"I have to be somewhere in two hours, Sherlock." he reminded the detective.

"This won't take long, John. I've already alerted Lestrade and he's sending a few of his least annoying underlings to make the arrest with us. You should be able to make it to your appointment with time to spare."

If only things were easy when it came to life with Sherlock. The suspect saw them coming and bolted. That wasn't unusual. Most criminals did tend to run when they saw Sherlock coming. John took off with Sherlock beside him and went weaving through alleys after the fleeing man. They came to a fork and without words they split up. John went to the right and Sherlock to the left. John had just rounded another corner when a knife was plunged deep into the middle of his chest. John felt the knife pierce his lung and gave a strangled cry as the criminal ripped the object from his flesh and took off. John fell to his knees and pressed a hand to the wound. He could feel his lung filling with blood and watched as it pooled between his fingers. He tried to call out for help, but he could not make a sound. Instead, he reached for his gun and fired a shot into the air before he passed out.

Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound and immediately raced for the place of its origin. When he arrived his heart lurched and he nearly vomited. John was face down and an alarmingly large puddle of blood was pooling underneath him. He reached for his mobile and called for an ambulance. Once he was assured that help was on its way, he knelt beside John and rolled him over onto his back. He felt for a pulse at the doctor's neck and was relieved to feel a faint thumping beneath his fingers. Then he pressed down hard on the wound in John's chest in an effort to stop the bleeding. That action caused the doctor to be ripped from unconsciousness.

"Christ!" he managed to force out. Sherlock tried to ignore the blood that trickled out of the corner of John's mouth as he fought to keep breathing.

"John, you dim-witted fool! What happened to all that army training? Don't you know to never go running blindly around corners? Honestly!"

John placed his hand over the one that Sherlock was still pressing against the wound. Thankfully, Sherlock could hear the sirens getting closer.

"Help is on the way, don't worry. They're going to take you to hospital and you'll be good as new. Nothing at all to worry about."

John shook his head and Sherlock watched the tears gather in the doctor's eyes. He tried to speak again, but the sound came out a sickening, wet gurgle. Suddenly, John began to convulse and his eyes rolled back into his head.

"No! No, John! You can't die. That would be so _ordinary_! That would be mind-numbingly _dull_ of you!"

Sherlock felt for John's pulse again, but couldn't find one. At that moment, the paramedics arrived and they shoved Sherlock away from John and began to work on him. They made an incision and a deluge of blood flooded out of his lung. Sherlock had never been happier to watch someone take a breath, even if it sounded gurgled and shallow. Sooner than he thought possible, the paramedics had John on a stretcher and were carting him away. Sherlock ran after them and threw himself into the back of the ambulance. One paramedic told him that he had to get out, but with a few biting words he was reluctantly allowed to stay. On the ride the only thing that Sherlock paid attention to was the stuttering beat beneath his fingers as he held fast to John's wrist.

/

Sherlock sat with hands steepled under his chin as he stared at the doors to the surgical bay. He had been ushered to the surgery waiting room when the ambulance had arrived, and he hadn't moved since. He didn't acknowledge the arrival of Lestrade, or Molly, or even Mrs. Hudson who had squeezed his shoulder and sat next to him. The only person he had no choice but to acknowledge was Mary. She had stormed into the waiting room and made a beeline for Sherlock.

"How could you let this happen?" she screamed at him.

Sherlock barely glanced at her before he looked back at the doors.

"I was not the one who stabbed him." he muttered.

Mary was furious.

"You as well as did! If he hadn't been running after some crazy person with you, then he never would've gotten injured. He might _die_, and you are to blame!"

Mrs. Hudson stood up and tried to calm the younger woman down.

"This isn't Sherlock's fault, dear. He and John have been doing this work for years, and this is the first time something like this has happened." she tried to reason, but Mary was having none of it.

"Then they have both been extraordinarily lucky! Neither of them has any business running after criminals. That's what the Yard is for! John is a _doctor_! He's meant to be saving people's lives, not fighting for his own!"

Sherlock had finally had enough of Mary's screaming.

"Enough! If all you're going to do is yell and try and blame people, then you should just leave!"

Mary glared at him and said in a deathly calm voice, "I am John's fiancé. I have every right to be here."

"And not one other person in this room has a right? Do not think for one _second_ that you are the only one who cares about John Watson." Sherlock seethed.

Lestrade stood up and grabbed Sherlock by the arm.

"That's enough, Sherlock."

The detective stiffened for a moment, but then he allowed himself to be pushed back into his chair. Mary took a seat as far away from Sherlock as possible while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson returned to their own chairs. Everyone sat in a tense silence that was only broken with the bay doors opened and John's surgeon stepped through them.

"He's in critical condition, but he's stable. Dr. Watson is quite the fighter."

"When can we see him?" Molly asked.

The surgeon shook his head as he replied, "He's in the intensive care unit, so only family is allowed in, and only one at a time."

Mary stepped forward.

"I'm his fiancé. I'd like to see him."

The surgeon nodded and led Mary down the hallway. Sherlock glared after her.

"Is it absolutely necessary for her to continue to mention that?" he asked harshly. Molly gave him a sympathetic glance as she pulled him towards the elevator that would take them to the ICU waiting area.

/

Mary sat gripping John's hand and watching the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing on his own and that made his prognosis much better than it could be. The surgeon had told her that she should talk to him, but she couldn't bring herself to utter one word. What could she possibly say? He had nearly lost his life because he was gallivanting with Sherlock in places that he had no business being in. Mary was angry, and she knew that if she spoke she would regret it, so she kept silent.

Slowly, John began to stir. Mary watched as he closed his fingers around her own and then she heard him mumble something. She didn't quite catch what he said, but a moment later he repeated himself.

"Sherlock…" John wheezed out as he struggled to open his eyes. Mary's breath caught in her throat. She had said once that it was possible that John loved Sherlock more than her, and now she had all the proof she needed. Mary began to pull her hand out of John's when he finally opened his eyes. He caught her gaze, but she glanced away quickly.

"Mary?"

She gave him a forced smile.

"You'll be alright. You're in hospital, in the ICU actually, but now that you're awake I'm sure they'll move you shortly. You were stabbed and your lung was punctured. Sherlock called for an ambulance and once you arrived you were rushed straight to surgery. They managed to fix your lung and in a few weeks you should be good as new." she informed him.

John nodded.

"I remember being stabbed. The rest is news." he wheezed.

"You shouldn't talk. Your surgery was quite invasive. The recovery will most likely be unpleasant, but I'm sure Sherlock can manage you."

John gave her a questioning look and Mary felt her eyes welling up with tears.

"This is the worst possible time and place to do this, but I have to do it now. I can't marry you, John. I can't live my life wondering where you are and if you're all right. I can't get phone calls telling me that you're on death's door fighting for your life on an operating table. I thought I was marrying a doctor, not an officer. I thought your days of danger were behind you. I can see now that I was wrong and that you were right. You told me that I didn't know the real you, and it's clear that this is who you really are; Sherlock makes you who you are, and I refuse to compete with him for a moment longer. I'm sorry. I truly, truly am."

John tried to sit up, he tried to stop her, but Mary gently pushed him back onto the bed and shook her head.

"My mind's made up, John. I wish you all the best."

She leaned over and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead before slipping off her engagement ring and placing it on the bedside table. After doing so, she walked away and didn't look back.

/

Everyone looked up when Mary walked through the waiting room, but she didn't look at anyone and she didn't stop. Once she had rounded the corner everyone turned to look at each other.

"That was a bit not good." Mrs. Hudson whispered.

"More than a bit I'd say." Lestrade added.

"I hope everything is okay." Molly ventured.

"I'd say not. She wasn't wearing her ring." Sherlock mentioned offhandedly. Three pairs of eyes stared at him intently.

"What? Surely you noticed?"

His response came in the form of blank stares.

"Honestly, what do you do with your brains? You _clearly_ don't use them to think or observe."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and covered her mouth with her hands.

"Poor John! They were so wonderful together." she lamented.

Sherlock abruptly stood up and strode down the hall in the direction that Mary had exited. The three remaining occupants of the room watched him go.

/

It only took a little bit of attitude and a few tears on the nurse's part before Sherlock found himself sitting at John's bedside. The doctor had only given him a short glance before he turned and continued to stare at the ring that was left behind by the woman he thought he would spend his life with. Sherlock kept silent for as long as he was able, but it honestly wasn't very long.

"I would ask if you want to talk about it, but your surgery would have made that nearly impossible for you."

John shot him a glare and wheezed, "Uncomfortable, yes. Impossible, no." He savored the tiny glimmer of shock that passed over Sherlock's face before it was replaced by something that he couldn't name.

"Well, all the same, I can tell that you aren't ready to talk about it."

John gave him a look that said more than words ever would. Sherlock just nodded and then glanced away. After a moment he quietly murmured, "It's better this way."

John tried to sit up in indignation, but found that the task was too painful and fell back onto the mattress. Instead, he replied, "For who?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"For everyone. She obviously wanted a man whom was very much like her and lived a quiet life with very little in the way of excitement. That is not you, John Watson. You were born for the thrill of the chase and the adventure of finding an answer. You may have loved her, I couldn't gather enough data to say definitively, but you did _not_ love the mundane turn your life had taken. You were not being true to yourself, and that makes men far more insignificant than you miserable beyond reason. So, naturally, the best course of action would be for the two of you to go your separate ways."

John shook his head. Leave it to Sherlock to make emotional turmoil into nothing more than a logical course of action. However, one thing he had said stuck out to John and required further explanation.

"Men far more insignificant than I? Am I significant?" he forced out. Sherlock's face softened at the question. He looked away and out the window for a moment.

"You are the most significant person I have ever known." he replied quietly without looking back at John.

"My own life means very little to me. There are few things that I truly treasure, and fewer people. I have never understood sentiment and attachment and have always seen them as a weakness and utterly worthless. The only thing I ever understood was necessity. It is necessary to eat, sleep, and breathe. It is necessary to occupy my mind with games and puzzles. These are things that I knew without question. Then, I met you. You baffled me. Most people ran from me almost as quickly as they met me, but you stayed. You stayed and I found myself wanting your presence. I found myself wanting to please you and hating when I disappointed you. You became necessary. Moriarty knew that and he used it against me. If he had simply wanted me to kill myself I would have done so, but he wanted to _burn me_. He had the only thing he would ever need to do so; he had you. It came down to my life or yours, and in that situation there was only one solution. You had become necessary and indispensible; therefore, your death was not an option. Getting rid of Moriarty himself wouldn't make you safe though, so I had to take them all down. Only then would you be safe; only then would he truly be gone."

John stared at Sherlock for a long time. Some part of him had always known that Sherlock cared, but to hear it admitted was something amazing. The detective had still not turned to meet his gaze, so to get his attention John reached out and placed his hand over Sherlock's. His gaze shifted from their hands to John's eyes.

"You put me through Hell." John whispered.

"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, I did not enjoy it any more than you did."

"It does make me feel better."

Sherlock smiled. He turned his hand so that he could wrap his fingers around John's while still being mindful of the IV. John glanced at their joined hands, blushed, and tried to laugh before he determined that the action was too painful at the present moment.

"People might talk." he wheezed.

"People do little else." Sherlock added.

John smiled and stroked his thumb gently over Sherlock's hand as if to say, "Let them."

/

When John was finally released from the hospital, he was not surprised to find that the car sent for him stopped outside 221B Baker Street. Nor was he surprised to find the key in his pocket or his things boxed up and in the common room.

"Mycroft, you are thorough." he whispered as he looked around. He had just found the box containing his clothes when Sherlock walked in.

"Glad to have you out of the hospital. Cases have been dull without you. Sorry I couldn't come get you myself, but Lestrade needed a statement and he wouldn't let me go until I'd told him everything."

John nodded and asked, "So I'm to assume that Mary and I's flat is empty?"

Sherlock confirmed and said, "She was gone with all her things by the time Mycroft's people got there. I can assure you that you will not be held responsible for the lease."

"No, I thought not."

There was silence for a moment and then John sighed.

"I don't suppose Mary left a note saying where she's gone or anything?"

Sherlock picked up one of the boxes and began to mount the stairs to John's room.

"No. She didn't."

/

With John back at Baker Street, things got good again. There were still people running amuck in London, and there were still a few life-threatening instances where some poor moron would threaten either John or Sherlock, but none of them lived very long after doing so. John was happy again, _truly _happy, and Sherlock shared his sentiment.

John never heard from Mary again, or anyone from her family. When she had said goodbye, she meant it utterly and completely. John gave her engagement ring to Harry saying, "Use it the next time you want to get married." She had laughed, but even John could tell that his joke had been in poor taste. He didn't care in the slightest.

The only thing that had changed from before The Incident, as John still referred to the time when Sherlock was gone, was that the two men had become more affectionate. Somehow they always found themselves touching each other. John would place his hand on Sherlock's lower back when moving past him in the kitchen and Sherlock would press his leg against John's on the couch and in cabs. When Sherlock would collapse from exhaustion after a long case, John would brush his hair gently away from his face and smile. Sherlock, in turn, would squeeze John's shoulder after he'd had a hard day at Barts. To anyone else these would all seem small, but to the two men in question these little acts spoke volumes. So much so, that John finally felt the need to address them verbally.

"What are we, Sherlock?" he asked one night when Sherlock was bored and attempting to entertain himself with crap telly.

"I am the world's only consulting detective, and you are my blogger. Obviously."

John smirked.

"Is that all?"

Sherlock sighed and turned off the television.

"I knew it would come to this; talking about _sentiment_. Although, I am slightly surprised that you've held out this long."

John shook his head.

"Of course. Well, let's make this short then, shall we?"

Sherlock nodded his agreement and John continued with, "I'm at a loss as to what it is that is going on here. It's not the same as it was, but it's not altogether different either. I'm confused and I don't know what to make of it anymore."

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and regarded John.

"I have already told you that you are necessary to me and the most significant person in my life. I am not sure how I could be any clearer."

John's breath caught in his throat.

"I thought you didn't have a heart."

Sherlock smirked.

"Would you prefer to keep believing that?"

"No." John answered immediately before he could really think about Sherlock's question. Once it was out of his mouth, however, he realized just how true it was.

"It's just, my whole life there were things that I knew with utmost certainty about myself. I knew that honor and loyalty were things that I held dear. I knew that Harry and I didn't get on, but that I loved her deeply. I knew that a desk job was something that would drive me mental. I knew that I was attracted to women."

John's heart stuttered in his chest, and for a moment he was worried that Sherlock had heard it. With a glance down at the floor he added, "Then I met you, and I learned things that I never knew. I learned that I need danger and thrill. I learned that the violin calms me down even when I'm at my breaking point. I learned that I would kill for more than just my country; I would kill for love. And, what I'm beginning to learn is that maybe all those people who thought we were together knew something that I wouldn't find out until I watched you step off a building's ledge. Maybe I really do need you. Maybe I really do love you."

"Are you scared?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?"

John looked up and caught Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm going to face my fear." he whispered. In the next second he had crossed the short distance between them and resolutely pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a desperate kiss. The detective only hesitated for a moment before he surrendered and returned the kiss. It only lasted a few seconds, but when the two men pulled away from each other they found that the entire world had shifted.

"You need me?" John asked.

"Yes. You love me?"

"Yes." John replied with a nod.

Sherlock smiled and then John began to laugh.

"We're never going to hear the end of this."

"No. But then, I've been telling you that people do little else than talk." Sherlock managed between laughs.

John nodded and composed himself.

"Right then. Tea?"

"I'd love some."

John went into the kitchen to make two mugs and Sherlock reached for his violin. As he started to play, John smiled. Things were going to be fine. Things were going to be _fantastic_. Because, after all, life goes on.


End file.
